Flag on the Marble Arch
by Cameron Kennedy
Summary: Italy gazed at the stained glass with dead eyes. "I wonder which hurts more: hanging from your hands and dying for days, or having your heart shattered and surviving it for centuries afterward..."
1. Love is not :Lullaby:

**_Notes:_**

_Part I of III_

_It's not 100% historically accurate, but I tried. (I think France actually took over Italy around 1805-ish, but I didn't want to put that in for reasons I'm sure you can figure out.)_

_Also, if you look in the right place, you can find a partial strip from Himaruya where France is telling Italy that "the Holy Roman Empire is no more." Unfortunately, the rest of the comic has been completely deleted, and so you really don't get to see very much of Italy's response. Hence, fanfiction._

_(I went for the panties thing here instead of the push-broom, too. It really doesn't make a huge difference in the grand scheme of things, but I figured it would be easier to carry panties than a broom, so that's what I went with. The broom makes a cameo later.) _

_If anyone out there loves music, check out "Hallelujah" and "Sing Me to Heaven." If you look closely enough, there are some not-so-subtle ties to both throughout this, which is why I listed them under the disclaimer. Also, Brahms is one of the most epic composers of all time - his music is amazing, and I guarantee that you've heard his "Wiegenlied" at LEAST once in your life. _

_Reviews are much appreciated~ _

* * *

><p><em>Disclaimers:<em>

_Hetalia © Himaruya Hidekaz  
><em>_Sing Me to Heaven _© Daniel Gawthrop (composer), Jane Griner (words)  
><em>___Hallelujah _© Leonard Cohen  
>Ein <em>deutsches RequiemWiegenlied __© Johannes Brahms______

* * *

><p><strong>XX<em>X ~ His Flag on the Marble Arch ~ XXX<em>**_  
><em>

* * *

><p><strong>1 May 1617<strong>

The Holy Roman Empire has just left for war.

Italy does his chores at Austria's house with a a strange feeling in his stomach. It's a curious mixture of sorrow and expectation and butterflies; he will not see Holy Rome for a long time, but he knows he will see him again nonetheless, and he is sure that they will have a happily ever after like all love does! It seems so simple to consider, so mundane - yet Italy is sure that he is the luckiest boy in the world!

Twice that day, Austria catches him staring off into space instead of working. But both times, instead of reprimanding his servant, Austria just shakes his head, sighs, and leaves Italy to his dreams.

* * *

><p><strong>28 July 1652<strong>

Italy is bored, and Hungary is apparently feeling helpful, so the two of them decide to make fake plans for a wedding! Italy pretends that he doesn't know who it is all for, but he's quite aware that Hungary is hoping that he and Holy Rome will use her ideas in the future, and so he's happy to play along! Italy already knows exactly what he wants for some things, and when he doesn't know Hungary gently coaxes him into a decision with a twinkle in her eye.

A cathedral - they're going to get married in a huge church, probably at Holy Rome's place (the Pope would frown upon it, but Italy doesn't care). There's going to be a choir singing of joy and peace and love and everything! Italy can already picture how the light from the stained-glass windows will fall upon them just-so as they exchange vows, and it will be beautiful and grand and perfect!

Early August, he thinks. Early August is when they will get married, because too many weddings take place in June.

But then Austria appears, and he shakes both Italy and Hungary out of their plans; the latter gets a scolding while the former gets a long look and a sigh.

* * *

><p><strong>13 June 1703<strong>

Italy decides to practice the spare piano in one of Austria's side-rooms. He has heard a rumor that the Holy Roman Empire will be coming home soon, and he cannot wait! So to pass the time, he tries writing a song - and maybe, if he finishes it in time, he will sing it for Holy Rome when he returns!

The thought makes him glow with happiness. After so many years, he finally gets to meet his only love again! (It sounds rather silly when he says it to himself... Love? But there isn't another word he can think of that explains the feeling, so he sticks with "love" and believes in it with all his heart.) While he's practicing, though, something odd happens: his voice suddenly changes registers. Hearing a few gasps, he turns around and sees Austria and Hungary standing there, the latter looking shocked and the former looking absolutely delighted.

And in the excitement that follows (Austria promises him some new clothes!), Italy finds that his thoughts are more about the Holy Roman Empire then they have ever been in the past. He hopes Holy Rome doesn't mind that he's changed physically - after all, isn't love supposed to come from the heart?

And so he waits for him to return.

* * *

><p><strong>1 January 1704<strong>

Eagerly, Italy continues to wait for news. No news comes, but he still fondly hopes...

* * *

><p><strong>4 November 1708<strong>

There is still nothing.

Yet he still waits.

* * *

><p><strong>16 December 1718<strong>

There is still nothing.

Italy feels his smiles slipping.

* * *

><p><strong>20 February 1728<strong>

Does he even need to say?

Hungary catches him staring out the window, and she reassures him that Holy Rome _is_ going to come back - apparently political issues in his country are a bit of a mess, and that is why he still has been unable to return. Italy nods quietly, but Hungary must notice the sadness in his eyes because she cheerfully suggests that Italy draws and paints while he waits. After thinking it over for a moment or two, Italy becomes momentarily happy again and follows her suggestion.

He sets up his easel by the window, though. Just in case...

* * *

><p><strong>13 October 1795<strong>

News of a French conqueror reaches the household, and Italy feels terrified. Hungary and Austria are worried, but they promise him that he will be fine so long as he stays with them.

Yet Italy still worries over every little thing that could go wrong. What if Austria and Hungary are hurt? What if Italy himself is hurt? Who is going to take care of him if something happens? Will they become prisoners of war? Will they be dissolved into French provinces?

Whatever he feels for himself, however, is nothing compared to what he feels for Holy Rome, because while he is safe at home, he knows that his love is fighting on the battlefield.

* * *

><p><strong>15 September 1806<strong>

The Napoleonic Wars have been going on for such a long time, yet for some reason France takes the time off from conquering Europe to visit Italy at Austria's house.

Italy may not be extremely smart, but he knows that France isn't an idiot - it must be important if his blond relative is risking his own well-being to see him now. Even as he opens the front door and quickly drags a shaken France to a nearby field so they aren't seen (it wouldn't do to have Hungary hitting him with that frying pan of hers), he can tell that his older brother is weary and feeling very down.

"Ve," he says softly, "what is it? You seem very sad."

"I am," France admits sullenly. "I feel like I am going to break your heart."

That makes Italy confused - what does that mean? Why is he so upset? "But France," he reasons innocently, "you can't break something you don't have."

The statement causes France to cringe. "That... that honor belongs to the Holy Roman Empire, doesn't it?"

He blinks. "What...?"

_Why would he say...?_

Is Holy Rome hurt? Is he in hiding? Is he a prisoner of war? Or - _no_, he wouldn't be. Holy Rome had made a promise to him all those centuries ago and sealed it with a kiss. It isn't that.

"Ah... sorry." France's gaze shifts downward and he draws a shaky breath before saying the fateful words -

_"The Holy Roman Empire is no more."_

A pause.

...

Words.

...

That... was all Italy heard. Meaningless sounds coming from France's mouth.

Words.

Words that _can't_ be true.

A soft "_Eh...?_" slips out.

No. Holy Rome said he _would_ come back.

_Does that mean France is... lying...?_

France doesn't even offer a smile. "You should forget about him." Softly he turns away. "You've suffered enough already, haven't you?"

_No._

_No!_

_NO!_

He's lying! He has to be! _There's no other explanation!_

"_France, tell me the truth!_" he demands.

France turns back and looks even more hurt at the accusation. "That IS the truth, Italy. He's gone. He's been gone for - "

"_NO!_ I would know! I would feel something if he was dead! You're lying!" A tear falls. "You're lying!_ You're lying! Why do you say he's gone?_"

"Italy," his voice cracks, "I would never lie about something like this. Believe me."

More tears. "I can't. I can't. _I can't._"

He's shaking so badly that he thinks he will fall apart at the seams. He's about to shatter on the green grass, and nobody will ever be able to find the fragments of his soul lost in the aftermath. His knees crumple and he's surprised his chest hasn't split in two from the sudden pressure he feels.

At that precise moment, for whatever reason, he realizes that this is the same field where Holy Rome had run away from him so many years ago when Italy had refused to join his empire.

This makes him cry harder.

France softly gets on his knees beside him. "Holy Rome... he asked me to bring you these as he was dying."

Another lie. Why did France tell him these things? What did France gain from scaring him like this? A large part of him is still clinging to the hope that this is all a sham, but, with a soft gasp of horror, this too is broken.

France hands him Holy Rome's hat and a small pair of panties.

* * *

><p><strong>Hours Later<strong>

France has left by now, but Italy still hasn't moved.

He's crying, _sobbing_, trying to find a reason that this happened, and suddenly - he feels himself enveloped in a hug. For a startled moment, he stops, because he isn't sure who it is, but then he hears Hungary's voice trying to comfort him.

"Shh... It's okay, Italy. Everything is going to be okay..."

For a second time, he breaks, and without resistance he allows her to hold him like a child and tell him lies.

* * *

><p><strong>That Night<strong>

He doesn't remember being taken to the house, but he does remember the moment when Hungary tries to take the Holy Roman Empire's hat from his hands.

He's lying in bed, and he has no idea how he got there. He's no longer holding onto the panties, and a letter (which he somehow knows is important) is being examined by Austria in the background.

Hungary gently tugs on the edge of the hat. "Italy, _please_ - you're going to damage it if you don't put it down!"

He hiccups, and more tears slide down his face as he shakes his head. It's the only thing he has now in the world, and he refuses to let anyone take it from him.

"Hungary," Austria remarks with raised eyebrows, "this letter is from... France..."

Oh... so France left them a letter explaining? A part of Italy is glad - if he never has to speak the words, he might still be able to rebuild himself.

A part of him is shattered even more - he wishes he didn't remember what needed explaining.

Hungary turns around and gives Austria a glare. "_Not NOW_," she hisses. "We can deal with France later!"

She tries prying the hat out of Italy's grip once again, with gentle fingers and even gentler words, but Italy only begins crying harder. Eventually Hungary gets the point and finally gives up with sad eyes, and Austria leaves the room with a curt, "Excuse me."

"Why can't you tell us?" she asks softly. She pulls Italy's tear-stained face onto her shoulder. "What could have possibly happened...?"

And just like that, the entire mood is broken when a loud _crash_ comes from downstairs. Hungary jumps with surprise and almost leaves to go and see what is wrong, but Italy pulls her close and begins sobbing again so she'll stay.

Austria's voice rises through the thin floor.

"_Gott verdammt!_"

Another crash resounds.

"_ARSCHLOCH!_"

He knows. Italy doesn't have the slightest idea what France wrote to them in the letter, but he is positive about one thing now.

Austria knows, and he is absolutely _furious_.

Why do people yell? Why do they fight? Why do they kill? If nobody fought, then _he_ wouldn't be dead; _he_ would be there with Italy; _he_ wouldn't have caused Italy's heart to break.

These thoughts make Italy exhausted, and he lies down in bed trying to cry himself to sleep.

Hungary, like the mother she almost is, helps the process along by softly singing him a lullaby.

* * *

><p><strong>Dark<strong>

Italy awakes with a start when he hears Hungary's shrill voice through the thin floor, in a manner and tone similar to Austria's earlier.

"AUGUST 6? THE EMPIRE WAS DISSOLVED ON AUGUST 6, AND FRANCE WAITS AN ENTIRE GODDAMNED MONTH BEFORE TELLING US THAT_ THE HOLY ROMAN EMPIRE IS DEAD?_"

That much of her tantrum Italy can understand, comprehend, and even accept - August 6.

What was today...? Was it September? Or October? Time seems to have slipped away and it feels as though he's been broken for an eternity instead of less than twenty-four hours.

_A summer wedding... early August... _

A part of him snaps, and he forces Hungary's voice out of his head.

He can't take it any more.

* * *

><p><strong>Moments Later<strong>

Love is not supposed to end like this. It never ends in tragedy; it never means sorrow; it never leaves survivors. Romeo and Juliet were lovers, after all, and they were glad to cross that void into eternity.

To die now means to join Holy Rome, yet, as Italy stands with wobbly knees on the railing to his room's balcony, he can't force himself to be _glad_. He inhales, exhales, and looks down.

Maybe he's thinking too hard, but to die by jumping three stories down onto the hard cobblestone... _Alone?_ Romeo and Juliet ended their lives together. Somehow, feeling suddenly cold and vulnerable and having his toes scrape against the marble railing beneath his feet, this isn't the same.

And so cohesive thoughts return.

He can always do this later. He may change his mind - and besides, there is still the chance that France is just pulling a joke on him and had gotten the hat and panties from foul play. (He's lying to himself through figurative teeth, and he knows it.) Even so, with tears streaming down his face and the sobs beginning anew, he carefully steps back down.

He doesn't believe for an instant that this will be the only time that suicide will cross his mind.

* * *

><p><strong>Some Later Date<strong>

Italy doesn't smile for years.

The weight in his chest keeps growing, and he honestly believes that he's going to destroy himself from the pressure of it. He still ponders death, and he doesn't quite fear it or care whether he stays or goes. Sometimes, he wonders if he might be able to help these thoughts along with a shot from Austria's pistol, a stab from a kitchen knife, or a rope around the neck. But no, he decides each time - as easy as it may be to kill, to _die_, he can't leave the nations in shambles like that. So instead he is left to wonder: what would happen if another one of them left the realm of Earth by the whims of another?

What if he kills himself?

What if he kills _someone else_?

That's what he really feels like doing. It scares him, it scares him a _lot_, to catch himself wondering if he's capable of killing his friends, his brothers, and his enemies. Nobody else knows or understands or feels the pain he's carrying around - he's lost his grip on reality and thinks that someone else is going to die if he doesn't have _something_ to hold onto. But every single time he reaches for that pistol, that knife, that rope... he stops.

If he holds it in, it will get better. If he holds it in, he can fool all of them, and then things will get better.

It's a flimsy theory, without a shred of proof behind it, but it's enough.

He hears through the floor beneath him when Hungary and Austria argue over trivial things - how Hungary's government won't let their countrymen fight in any of the wars, how the Austrian monarchy wants to help France, how France's empire keeps growing, and eventually how his expansions collapse. Napoleon is sent into exile on some island, and Italy hears Hungary fuming that the French commander should have been handed over to her. Then, moments later, she will appear upstairs wearing a completely different expression and speaking serene words of comfort and doting to Italy. There isn't a single crack in the façade, and he finds himself admiring her for it.

(How can he recreate that carefree face like she does? Because if the distraction of the challenge it poses is what holds him together, then he can and he _will_ show them the person he used to be instead of the hollow thing he's become.)

But... Italy still can't force himself to care about the Frenchman Napoleon or the fate of Europe.

After all: no matter the victor, it is still impossible for him to reattain what he has lost.

* * *

><p><strong>Often<strong>

The only way any of them allow themselves to show what they're really feeling is, strangely, through music. Austria lets his countenance slip when he plays the piano in the evening, and only then can Italy read how upset he really is by Holy Rome's passing. Sometimes, when he's playing, both Italy and Hungary will quietly sit beside him on the piano bench, and they all silently mourn the same person.

Softly, yet with great talent and passion, Austria plays them both a love song.

* * *

><p><strong>Sometime Mid-Century<strong>

The next time Italy sees his brother, France has a huge bruise on his forehead, no doubt courtesy of Hungary. She may be satisfied with her revenge, but Italy can't force himself to feel even a bit of smug satisfaction.

France still seems to think that Italy is upset with him, and so he begins to apologize once more for the horrid thing he did. Before he can get the words out, though, Italy has already begun smiling and rambling on about pasta. France seems stunned, for just a moment, but then he shrugs to himself and falls for the deception. Italy appears to be the same, young soul he used to be, and it looks as though he has gotten over the pain.

And for a moment, Italy almost believes his own act.

* * *

><p><strong>Years Later<strong>

It seems all too soon that Hungary and Austria begin to genuinely smile once more. Italy forces his lips to curl up, and for a small "ve~!" to slip out; it fools them instantly, like it did France. And even though he loves the both of them very much (but not as much, or in the same manner, as he loved - loves? - the Holy Roman Empire), he eventually leaves their house. He discovers that he actually likes living by himself; without anyone else around, he doesn't have to pretend.

As soon as he is alone and their backs are turned, his mask cracks.

* * *

><p><strong>He Does Not Know What Day It Is<strong>

Italy pretends to be happy that he and Romano are now one country, but secretly he mourns. With any luck, he had hoped that the nation would need only one representative and that one of them - himself - would fade away from existence before the day is over. But as night falls, no such thing happens.

On his bed, he holds Holy Rome's enduring hat and gently strokes the felt edges. He's kept it with him all these years, and when the nightmares come (which they often do), it offers him a little bit of comfort.

Softly, to himself, he sings his own requiem, should he vanish during the night, and silently prays that his wish will come true.

* * *

><p><strong>One Sunday<strong>

There is a new interest for him in the church, as though, by asking God, he will eventually find answers to the questions he so desperately asks. His hope is still hollow - if he did not receive the answers years ago, then he certainly will not learn the truth now.

But he still clasps his rosary. He still murmurs his thanks. He still asks forgiveness.

_Sancta Maria, Mater Dei, ora pro nobis peccatoribus,_  
><em>Sancta Maria, ora pro nobis, nunc et in hora mortis nostrae.<em>

He still prays for the soul of the Holy Roman Empire.

...

_Amen_, he whispers.


	2. a victory march :Love Song:

**_Notes: _**

_Part II of III_

_Thank you all so much for your feedback! It makes my day! _

_To the best of my knowledge, all the facts I included in this chapter and the next about the village of Viganella, Italy, are completely true. (Based on Google, anyway.)_

_Just to prove that I did it on purpose, I'll state right now that I pretty much skip over both World Wars in this. I didn't see the point in including them because we all basically know what happened (and because it's partially covered in the cannon material anyway), so I just included the stuff that seemed relevant to this particular cannon-scenario._

_As always, reviews are loved~_

* * *

><p><em><strong>XXX ~ His Flag on the Marble Arch ~ XXX<strong>_

* * *

><p><strong>6 August 1906<strong>  
><strong>One Hundred Years After<strong>

Italy pretends to be clueless and careless, and he acts as though he never knows the date, but in reality he ignores time on purpose. There is only a single day of the year that he ever observes, because it is the only date that ever matters to him.

The pain is still fresh.

He feels heavy enough that he decides, for one winter, to reside in the village of Viganella. The sun never shines there, and the symbolic irony will hopefully be enough of a hint to the other countries that he wants to be left alone. It's not quite peace, being alone... but it's as close as he will ever come.

Besides: he'd forgotten what sunshine felt like a century ago. It is impossible to miss that which he knows nothing of.

* * *

><p><strong>Maybe Ten Years Later<strong>

Europe is thrown into war.

It turns out that Romano has been busy behind his brother's back - several decades ago, he'd signed a treaty with the Austro-Hungarian Empire (even though Romano doesn't like Austria _or_ Hungary) and a then-new nation to the north named Germany. Romano mentions to his brother, briefly, that he heard Germany is really huge and powerful and merciless (sort of like Russia), and Romano says that he really wouldn't want either of them to get on this nation's bad side. Italy nods, but he really doesn't care what friends or enemies he has anymore - besides, Romano had signed the treaty with Austria and Hungary and had actually left before he even had a chance to see this new country, and for all he knows Germany might be as weak as a stick. But even so, his appearance is left up to Italy's imagination, and in his infrequent daydreams Germany is always big, mean, and scary. In truth, Italy almost always imagines that Germany is the one to kill him, and secretly he wishes that some big nation had a reason to destroy him.

Indeed, at the beginning of this Great War, that soon becomes a vague possibility. The two Italians are supposed to fight _with_ Germany, Austria, and Hungary, but Romano's hatred of Italy's former guardians causes him to betray the treaty and instead join the other side of the fight. Italy goes along with what his big brother says, even though it pains him to fight against Austria and Hungary and it just as equally intrigues him to fight against this feared Germany.

But when he thinks about it, he realizes that he's not really any better or worse off when this happens. He is still alone and scared and secretly willing himself to die, just like he has been for the past century, and nothing he foresees is going to change that.

* * *

><p><strong>After Several Months<strong>

It's time.

With luck, Italy is finally going to die.

His hiding place (a rather flimsy tomato crate that Romano had sealed him in) has been discovered. When he hears someone tapping on the box, he calls out to them and purposely tells the worst lie he can possibly think of by calling himself a "tomato fairy;" maybe, he reasons, the man trying to pry open the box is the nation named Germany. If he really is mean, Italy figures, Germany will shoot him for telling a ridiculous story, and because Italy always pretended to be ridiculously air-headed anyway, nobody could possibly guess that death was what he wanted in the first place.

And just like that, the lid of the tomato crate is broken off.

Before he can even begin to think, Italy shoots up, with his eyes squeezed shut, and begins to yell and scream and beg (because he wants to die, but that alone is still not enough to break the act he's been putting on for years). Midway through his rant, he feels his jacket being grabbed and feels himself lifted up in the air, and suddenly he hears a bass voice interrupt him.

"You wouldn't happen to be related to the great Rome, would you?"

And all at once, he stops crying and let's his eyes slide open just a tiny bit. He's expecting to see a monster, someone truly fearful; what he sees is... is...

Blond hair.

Blue eyes.

...And suddenly, in that precise moment, something changes.

* * *

><p><strong>That March<strong>

Indeed, Italy's captor is the feared Germany... but he doesn't mind. He says aloud that he likes being there, at Germany's house, because he gets free food and isn't harassed; Germany yells at him and says that he should be trying to escape and head home instead of being content as a prisoner.

Italy doesn't tell him the truth (after all, they have barely just met): no place has felt like his home since that day France destroyed his world. He supposes that he could run away, just because that is what is expected of him, but he can't shake the nagging feeling that this German man is someone important. And besides, he really does like being there with Germany, for the food and the quiet and... something else he can't quite name.

Then again, maybe he does know the name and doesn't dare put it into words, for fear of having the feeling slip away.

...He tries not to notice, but he's keeping track of time again.

* * *

><p><strong>25 December 1918<strong>

The god-forsaken Great War is finally over, but not without its losses.

Austria and Hungary are forced to divorce and end their collective empire as the Hapsburg dynasty collapses. Russia, somewhere to the far north, has had his monarchy overthrown and is now communist. Most of Europe is in ruins.

Italy had been sent home by Germany just before the war's end, which is probably just as well because his friend becomes dirt-poor in the aftermath. Surprisingly, however, instead of being sent in the box to his own house in the north of the country, Italy is sent to Romano's house in the south. He asks why, and his brother angrily waves it off.

"Don't flatter yourself - you're not here because I like you, you're here because those German bastards bombed the place. Now get the hell outta here - I haven't got any money to buy my_ own_ food, dammit, much less any pasta for you!"

But Italy was already done listening, because his mind is stuck on one thing: _those German bastards bombed the place._

_No._

_Dear god, NO!_

Italy leaves Romano that day and desperately heads for his own house, praying that it isn't true. He walks, he runs, he rides the train, he hitchhikes, he does everything he can think of to get there as quickly as possible... but it doesn't matter.

No matter how quickly he moves, the place is still in ruins - all that really remains of the house is the foundation, still blasted to bits and waiting in the cold ground for demolition.

Italy feels his knees go weak.

_The hat had been inside._

This can't... _no..._

His last reminder is gone.

His last physical scrap of the Holy Roman Empire has been destroyed.

Italy finds himself on the grass so very, very close to breaking out in tears... but then he realizes something: how had he survived so long without reminders before? He had gone almost the entire span of the war without the hat - something he had never even considered before - and he barely missed it at all.

But he already knows how.

Germany.

Germany is a reminder.

Germany, with his blond hair and blue eyes and overprotective personality, allows for him to pretend (for just a bit, anyway) that the Holy Roman Empire isn't gone.

...

Quickly, he pulls himself off the ground and begins running.

Because by god - if Germany is now the very last remnant of Holy Rome that Italy has on the whole earth, then he is going to protect him with everything he has.

* * *

><p><strong>7 August 1938<strong>

Germany glares at Italy for missing training entirely the day before. Italy pretends he doesn't care.

It becomes clear, however, when Germany confronts him later, that he won't let this time slide. "Italy," he says stiffly, "why weren't you training yesterday? We can't afford to have you slacking off anymore!"

"Ve! I'm sorry!" Italy exclaims. "I promise I'll try and keep it from happening again - "

"I didn't ask for an apology," Germany interrupts, "I asked for an explanation!"

Italy's cheerful smile falters, and his eyes concentrate on the floor.

_The explanation? Oh, you don't have to worry, Germany! It's just that, several hundred years ago, every single dream that I had made revolved around one boy, and yesterday was the anniversary of the date he was killed in battle. My heart hasn't healed by now, and I highly doubt it ever will be, but I manage to fake it through every day even with the pain... so you really shouldn't be concerned! It's not your fault!_

...Italy almost winces at the pitiful truth in his head.

He can't tell Germany.

He wants to, more than anything in the world, but he can't. To break down his walls like that, to show someone the hurt he's been hiding, to admit that Germany is special enough to hear the story first - it's too much. He can't, and he won't.

"...Italy?" the German says, more softly. It sounds like a question, but then his hand slowly reaches up and brushes Italy's cheek. "You're crying..."

Oh no. Has the dam broken? Will the story come rushing out in a torrent?

Will this make him hurt more than it already does?

And so he does what he has become an expert at: he lies. "I am? Oh, I-I-I guess I am!" Italy stutters. "Ve, don't worry about me! I just... I've only been... I... I..."

"Italy."

Germany grips his chin and forces him to look up from the floor. In one sheer moment of panic, Italy nearly runs like the coward he is, but then he notices Germany's eyes.

He sees uncertainty.

Doubt.

...Concern...

He sees the eyes of the long-dead Holy Roman Empire, and he remembers and he thinks and he _feels_, and for just a moment -

Italy is complete again.

But even a moment is much too long. Just like one flash of light shows all the cracks in a dark room, one instance of truth shows Italy exactly how broken he really is. The moment he is complete is also the moment he snaps again and _finally_ realizes that the lies he has been feeding himself have just been prolonging the moment he breaks.

Lies about feeling fine. Lies about forgetting. Lies about being happy even without the Holy Roman Empire there with him. Lies about a million other unimportant things in-between.

And that truly hurts.

Germany must have noticed something change, because he gives a resigned sigh and holds his arms out. "...Come here."

And without a second thought, Italy takes the offer and throws himself into the German's arms.

* * *

><p><strong>A Few Hours Later<strong>

Neither of them has moved, and Italy is an emotional wreck.

Germany, to his credit, seems to understand _enough_ that he doesn't shove Italy off, even though Italy has been clinging to him and crying quietly for the whole afternoon. He can't stop, because each time he manages to convince himself that he's hugging Germany, he dares to glance up and suddenly all he can see is the Holy Roman Empire in those blue eyes. It almost kills him each time because_ the Holy Roman Empire is dead_, and he _knows_ it.

That was why he'd wanted to be close to Germany in the first place, he remembers - he'd considered it a blessing.

Now, it's turned into a curse.

"You know," Germany murmurs quietly, "it might help if you would tell me what's wrong."

Italy awkwardly shakes his head against the German's chest. "N-No..." He pauses. "Germany?"

"Ja?"

Italy wipes his eyes. "Do you think... maybe... it's alright if you let me give you hugs sometimes? I-I mean, s-sometimes I just feel sad, and I... well..."

For a moment, Germany is silent. Then: "I suppose."

Italy smiles softly to himself (already he is slipping into his habits of acts and lies), because now he has a plan.

Germany is the one thing he has left to remember Holy Rome by - and Italy refuses to lose his friend.

* * *

><p><strong>That Evening<strong>

For the first time since the end of the Great War, Italy visits what is still left of his old home.

It gives him a strange feeling of hopelessness to be there; he is once again forced to face the facts. Time doesn't erase the damage done by war, and all the hope and dreams he once had are still in ruins. He isn't sure what possesses him to do it, but Italy impulsively pulls out a white flag from his backpack and leaves it there in the rubble of what was once a great marble arch.

Italy purposefully notes that it is the only sign of his inward surrender he has ever left on the face of the earth; something about the gesture makes him feel slightly better.

* * *

><p><strong>Early World War II<strong>

The bullets begin to fly, and Italy keeps running up and hugging Germany throughout the various battles.

The first time he does it, Germany is surprised. Italy assumes that the German believes he is scared (which he is, to a degree), and as soon as his friend gets over the initial assault he roughly shrugs Italy off and yells at him to do something useful.

(But he _is_ doing something useful - Germany just doesn't know it. Germany doesn't notice the bullet in Italy's side, because the Italian runs and never gives him the chance to see it. Germany has no idea what just transpired.)

Of course, this isn't the only time Italy hugs Germany during the skirmishes - only two battles later and the Italian has already lost track of the number of bullets he's taken. Each time he sees a rifle point in Germany's direction, he hugs him; more often than not, the shots miss.

When they do hit, though, Italy is always in the way.

Always.

It hurts horribly... but what else is he to do? So he holds the hurt in and makes good use of the mask he's perfected over the past hundred years.

He's always crying as he runs, but he's not sure if it's because of the physical holes in his side or because Germany always shoves him away.

* * *

><p><strong>24 December, 1942<strong>

Something has changed.

The tent is occupied that night by Italy and Japan, with Germany outside keeping guard. Japan has been asleep for several hours; Germany hasn't made a single noise. Italy lies awake, in the pitch black, thinking and wondering and silently trying to understand how his brain has finally come to a screeching halt.

Germany isn't Holy Rome.

He knows this. He's been running circles around that idea for years and years and years now... but his heart might be trying to tell him something else.

Maybe... maybe he's sort of...

...Something has changed.

Maybe.

That's what he's built himself around, really: _maybe_. Maybe he can pretend. Maybe he can fool them. Maybe he can be happy again. Maybe, maybe, maybe. Maybe - a word of illusion and possibilities that could exist but don't quite. And suddenly, possibilities aren't quite enough anymore: he has nothing concrete to grasp and no concept of reality anymore.

Softly, Italy hears Germany shift outside the tent, and, even more softly, he hears the German's voice. _Stille Nacht_. He'd forgotten until now - it's Christmas Eve. Or is it Christmas Morning now? It could be, since he doesn't have any way to judge the time. The partially-incoherent ideas run through his head as he thinks that Germany has a nice bass voice and that he sings it like a lullaby and so tenderly and _lovingly_ even though it's cold enough out to give him frostbite or even kill him and _why doesn't Germany ever show Italy that side of him? Why does he only do this when he thinks no one can see?_

But... then again, Italy has been doing the same thing. For days, months, years, decades, centuries. An ever-growing part of the Italian still wants to break down this wall; he wants to tell Germany what happened so many years ago, and another ever-growing part of him wants Germany to help him through.

Because, if he could, if he would, if he _does_, (Italy's eyes widen further as he realizes - ) he would never let him go.

...

And suddenly, with a thought, a hunch, a heartbeat, a note - several of his "maybes" become concrete knowledge.

* * *

><p><strong>During a Battle, 1945<strong>

They're losing. They're losing the war by horrible statistics, and Italy knows. Germany is trying to keep him in the dark, but he's never been blind to the obvious.

So Italy does the only thing he can - he protects the person who matters most to him.

"Ve, Germany!" he yells in the most cheerful voice he can muster. "You look sad! It's Hug-Time!"

But before he can do anything: "_TAKE COVER!_" a soldier screams.

Germany, for the first time, grabs desperately for Italy instead of the other way around, and just as he pulls the Italian to the ground and shields him the bomb hits.

Italy screams, and the world crashes in on them.

* * *

><p><strong>Near the End<strong>

Italy is shaking so badly that he can barely hold his rosary, and as much as he's willing the dam to hold back his emotion the tears are still beginning to escape.

They've captured Germany.

The war is over, and _Germany is about to die_.

History is about to repeat itself, and that is why Italy is a broken mess on the marble floor of the chapel. Neither the Holy Roman Empire nor Germany had a victory march - by god, he's speaking in past tense already - and the weight of it is too great a cross to bear. Italy has made it out of the fray unscathed (after all, none of the other nations think he is smart enough to be considered responsible), but Japan has been bombed by America and Germany is about to be split into pieces - he overheard the Allies talking about it at dinner.

They discussed it like they were commenting on the weather.

And now, Italy can do nothing but wait and pray.

He feels far, far too familiar with both actions.

* * *

><p><strong>Moments Later<strong>

The door to the back opens so quietly that Italy almost doesn't hear it.

Instinctively, he stiffens. He feels something move, deep down in his soul, because the only person who would come here so somberly would be the messenger. (He tries not to think of the horrible irony if France were to be the one to bring him this dreaded news, too.) He shifts his position to assure himself that there is, indeed, a pistol hidden within his pocket - the moment the news has been delivered and the messenger has left, it will all be over.

Italy cannot live.

He knows this. He's accepted it. He's planned for it.

The soft footsteps stop next to him, and he screws his eyes shut as every fiber of his resolve disappears. No, no, _no_; he _can't_ wait! He can't bear to hear the words, he can't feel helpless and vulnerable anymore, _he can't he can't he can't!_ He's going to _die_ before that happens.

_Salmo di Davide. L'Eterno è il mio pastore, nulla mi mancherà..._

He silently prays for his soul and for Holy Rome and for Germany and for all the others that have gone before them, and he drops the rosary as he pulls out the gun and presses it to his temple. But at the very instant that this happens -

"_Italy!_"

...And the cold, murderous thing falls from his hands and lands on the floor with a resounding echo.

No other words are spoken; nothing needs to be said. Because by now, Italy is sobbing and the very _living_, war-ragged Germany has fallen to his knees and has captured Italy once again - not in a battle, but in a hug so tight that Italy almost suffocates. But he doesn't mind, because he's too overwhelmed and too surprised and simply too overjoyed that Germany is alive.

And Italy thanks God.

For grace. For reason. For mercy. _For Germany._

...

_Grazie. Grazie grazie grazie_, he whispers, like a mantra, and he holds his friend a little tighter.


	3. Hallelujah :Requiem:

**_Notes:_**

_Part III of III_

_Wow! - I am absolutely speechless at all the wonderful reviews that have been sent in. I'm not trying to make this personal, but writing this fic helped me go through a very emotionally difficult time in my life; I'm so very glad that it seems real, because, at the very core, it is. I can't express enough thanks for all your praises and encouragement._

_So: the final chapter. Part II could have been the ending, but I like this better; Himaruya did say, after all, that HRE and Italy would have a "happy ending," and this is the only way I can see a happy ending in-cannon. Maybe you don't agree, but please respect the idea expressed._

_Written in Germany's third-person point-of-view; you'll see why._

_Thanks for reading~_

* * *

><p><em><strong>XXX ~ Their Flag on the Marble Arch ~ XXX<strong>  
><em>

* * *

><p><strong>5 August 2006<strong>

It's a quiet Saturday for both Italy and Germany.

As per usual, the Italian is lounging on the German's couch; he's sketching something quietly, with his left hand constantly rubbing his eyes. Germany is sitting in one of his chairs reading a book... or rather, attempting to read. He keeps glancing at Italy, waiting for something to happen.

It's almost That Date again.

Germany doesn't have any idea what makes tomorrow so significant, but, after several days of sinking into a depression, Italy _always_ disappears on August 6... It took Germany a few decades to notice it, but ever since he did, he looks to that day with a mix of anticipation and sadness.

Sadness, of course, because he hates seeing Italy upset. He never lets it show, but when the unnatural depression occasionally shows through on Italy's face, Germany's heart sinks. He doesn't think that he'll ever be able to tell this to the Italian, though, so he remains silent.

And yet, he anticipates that day. Not for a good reason, really: he keeps hoping that, one of these years, Italy will tell him what's wrong.

"Ve... G-Germany?"

Germany looks up from the page in his book (he couldn't concentrate on anything other than Italy anyway) and asks, "Ja?"

"Would you - please?" Italy reaches out with one arm and rubs his eyes with the other. (No, Germany realizes, he doesn't rub - he _wipes_ his eyes. He's crying, quietly, and he's trying to hide it.)

Yet, even with the vagueness of the question, Germany knows what Italy is asking for. He sets the book down and moves onto the couch before pulling the Italian into a gentle, somewhat stiff hug. It's something that he is occasionally asked for around this time of year, and he's come to expect it.

Italy gently returns the hug and relaxes into the blond's arms. For a while, they sit like that in silence; finally, Italy quietly stutters, "Hey, G-Germany, would you... would you come to church with me tomorrow? Per favore? There's something I... something I want you to... to know."

_It's the moment_ - the one that Germany has patiently waited for all these years: the one where Italy finally trusts Germany enough to tell him _why_. Not just why he disappears every year on the same day, but why he talks in his sleep and why sometimes, when Germany makes the bed in the morning, Italy's pillow is wet with soft tear-stains. He knows that they're all connected, somehow, because Italy has never been one to let sadness quietly slip away like this.

And in reality, remaining silent has only been hurting them both.

"...Ja," Germany says softly.

* * *

><p><strong>6 August 2006<strong>

To Germany's surprise, Italy wasn't referring to the church sermon: he wants to go to an old catholic cathedral after mass for the day is done. Germany is about to protest - doesn't going after-hours defeat the purpose? - but then Italy pulls out a key to the door, and Germany realizes that he's planned this out or maybe even done it before in years past.

Silently, the Italian holds the door open, and Germany steps through the threshold and into the monstrous building. He's forgotten how huge cathedrals are, and for a moment the sheer size of the church distracts him... but then he feels Italy softly tugging at his sleeve, like an eager child (although he certainly doesn't look excited), and he follows his friend through the dark shadows along the perimeter.

Eventually, they come to a small offshoot of the building with a few pews - it's not where the regular sermon is given, certainly, but Germany sort of likes this: it's more intimate than the rest of the large cathedral. Italy automatically sits down, and Germany follows suit. In the background, somewhere else in the building, Germany swears that he hears a choir. "Italy," he quietly asks, "why do I hear...?"

Italy stares straight forward. "I asked them to come... I thought it might make things easier, because music sometimes helps me think things through a little better, but..." He inhales and exhales and - for a moment - looks horribly lost. "I... I don't know where to start," he shakily admits.

"Start at the beginning," Germany quietly suggests.

Italy gives a hollow laugh - the sound is so obviously fake that Germany almost cringes. "I suppose... Ve, that makes a lot of sense," Italy admits. He draws another shallow breath and begins, "Germany... _have you ever been in love_?"

Germany immediately stiffens as the odd question sinks in - he has _no_ idea how he should answer to that. "I... well... I was... once," he slowly allows.

Italy bites his lip. "Was she... was she very pretty?"

Germany frowns as he tries to think through his extremely hazy memories. "I... I believe so... It was so long ago, though, that I barely remember her at all." He pauses. Why are they talking about _him_ when they should be talking about _Italy_? "...Where are you going with this?" he asks cautiously.

Italy looks down at his hands. "I'm not sure," he admits. "But I guess... well... what happened to her?"

Germany begins to stare at the wall, as if it will somehow help him remember. "I... I have no idea... She was a nation like us, I think..." He sighs again; he never was good with emotions, or at least not in showing them to others. "I _think_ that I had to leave, but I don't remember why. And I never saw her again."

Normally, Germany would have expected the Italian to respond with something like, "Ve, but Germany , if she was a country than maybe she hasn't died!" or maybe a slightly dampened "Oh... I'm so sorry! Would a hug help?" But, as he knows all too well, these are not normal circumstances.

He is still shocked by Italy's answer.

"P-perhaps it is better to n-not know," Italy stutters while still looking downward. Germany looks at his friend, surprised, but the Italian continues, "She m-might have had a good life, a-after all."

And in those two sentences, there is so much heartbreak that something in Germany snaps.

"...What _happened_ to you?" Germany asks. Italy doesn't answer and he continues more firmly, "Whatever it is, I don't like that you've been keeping it to yourself for so long - I don't like seeing this sad Italian! I want to see the Italy I know - the one that smiles and talks about pasta and gives me hugs! And it's so stupid for me to admit it, but I take that happy Italy for granted all the time, and... and _now I want him back_."

But instead of trying to smile and cheer Germany up, like he would have expected, this just causes the Italian to look at his friend with sadness on his face. "That Italy, the one you met during World War I... he was m-mostly a lie," he says softly. "The Italy you know is happy and cheerful and young... but in a way, he stopped existing 200 years ago." He wipes his eyes. "You said that - that you hate seeing me sad... most people do. But I've never really been completely _happy_... not since..." He trails off and begins staring at the ground again.

"...I thought... I thought that _I_ made you happy," Germany whispers.

Italy's eyes widen and his head snaps up. "Ve, but you _do_, Germany!" he insists. "You've helped me feel much better! It's just... the kind of happy you make me..." His face drops again. "It's close," he whispers. "It's very very very very _very_ close, but it... it isn't quite the same."

"So what's wrong?" Germany asks.

"What's... _wrong_...?" Italy repeats quietly. "I'm not so sure that that's what you meant to ask, ve. Nothing is _wrong_ - b-but everything is broken."

And then finally, _finally_, Italy begins to talk.

"You said that your first love was very pretty... Mine was, too. He - yes, Germany, he. Ve, he was so nice and kind and he never hurt anyone on purpose - and we sort of fell in l-love. We were both so young and innocent and full of life that I don't think either of us could have helped... We never really got the courage to admit it, though, not until the very day that he left." Something about Italy grows lighter and maybe slightly dreamier while he's thinking through what had happened. "And... and then he kissed me and promised that he would come back. And I believed him. I believed him completely, and for almost two centuries I waited. And waited... And waited..."

He can't breathe. "He... never came back?"

Italy's face falls. "N-no. He was killed on the battlefield during the Napoleonic Wars. And th-that broke me. It broke me into a million pieces that didn't even _begin_ to feel better until a whole century afterward. And now he's a sad memory, and I s-sometimes get him confused with s-someone else, and that almost hurts _worse_ because in my head I _know that he's long gone_ but my heart _still_ doesn't want to believe it... And then there's times when I really forget about all of it, but then I dream about him - sometimes he's with me and he's happy, but usually I'm on the battlefield with him but am just a useless Italian soldier like I was during the wars with you and _I can't save his life_ and - "

Germany stands up. "That's _not_ true."

Italy snaps out of his rambling and looks up at him from his seat in the pew. "W-what?"

"You never were a useless soldier!" Germany repeats. "Maybe I yelled at you for skipping out on training an awful lot of the time, but dammit, you weren't _useless_!"

Italy seems at a loss for words. "Well - I... I guess I believe you... But that doesn't make it feel any less _real_."

Germany slowly sits down, not knowing what he's supposed to say.

"G-Germany?" Italy asks softly. "Per favore... would you...?"

Knowing instantly what the Italian's asking for, he quietly sighs and gives him a hug in the pew. For a long time, they sit in silence.

...

Except for the choir.

Germany isn't sure what it is, but something about the music is itching in the back of his mind... He recognizes it, he_ thinks_, but he isn't sure. The echoing effect that the cathedral has on the chords distorts the words just a little too much, and he can barely distinguish the soprano tones soaring upward (as if to reach heaven) and the bass holding the choir down (as if to keep them grounded). Besides, it doesn't sound like any standard hymn he's ever heard - even with the words as garbled as they are, he can tell that there isn't a single chorus of "Hallelujah" in the music.

He's suddenly broken out of these thoughts when Italy asks into the German's shoulder, "Have you ever wondered just w-where I got so many scars?"

Germany isn't sure how to respond to that. After years of hearing Italy talk in his sleep, he certainly _knows_, and yet... Taking bullets? For _him_: the person who always scolded him and yelled at him and put him through hell for Germany's own stupid visions of glory? It's not possible - he never was valuable enough.

"...I have my suspicions," he carefully says.

Italy slowly nods against Germany's shirt. He's somehow perceived that Germany knows the whole story, because then he says, "J-Japan found out on accident, b-but I made him promise not to tell, even though I know he really wanted to... But he kept his promise because he also somehow knew that to me you were worth it. You were worth every s-single shot."

Germany pulls the Italian back and looks over his face before deciding that Italy had _not_ gained a sense of sarcasm overnight - Italy believes each word he's saying, and that _hurts_. "No, I wasn't," Germany says.

"Si, you were," Italy insists.

"No, dammit, I _wasn't_! What the hell was there about me that was _worth_ saving?"

"...You n-never broke y-your promises," Italy says shakily. "The one promise that anyone had made to me before..." He trails off, but Germany already remembers what he's talking about.

(_"He kissed me and promised that he would come back..."_)

"And besides," Italy continues (almost hesitantly, as though he is about to say something earth-shattering that shouldn't be revealed), "you saved me..." His head leans against Germany's shoulder. "W-Why shouldn't I have returned the favor?"

"I - I did?" Germany pulls away again and looks at Italy for an answer. "When?"

"Well, there were all those times you rescued me from England and France and America and China and that scary nation Russia and - " Italy stops suddenly and begins to look upset again. "...But... ve, I guess you saved me because... because you were someone to _live_ for."

Germany knows exactly how serious his friend is being by admitting that - by god, Italy almost killed himself at the end of World War II. If that didn't speak volumes about his attachment to Germany (was that truly the word he wanted to use?), than nothing would. But still: knowing something to be true is completely different than hearing it said aloud.

Germany never was good with emotion - internally he asks why Italy had to come to him, but then he realizes that there isn't anyone else. Weren't they each others' first friends, after all?... And so he quietly mutters the only thing he can think of. "Danke."

"No: grazie," Italy murmurs back.

For a short time again, they sit in silence, with eyes focused on the walls of the building and with the choir still singing in the background and _dammit_, Germany is _positive_ he's heard this song before -

"After such a long time," Italy says, interrupting his thoughts, "I wonder if it's still supposed to hurt... Do you wonder what could have happened between you and - and _her_?"

Germany closes his eyes and tries very, very hard to remember for a just a moment -

(_auburn hair green dress captivating laughter her broom that beautiful smile -_ )

- and for that moment, he feels_ horrible_. "Sometimes," he says dryly (sadly?), "the past is better left forgotten."

Italy looks away. "Ve... I suppose. But Germany - is it wrong to feel happy sometimes, when I remember?"

"...Nein," Germany says. "I think that you're just finding new ways to smile."

He's surprised when Italy genuinely laughs. "But ve - _you_ never smile! How do you know that?"

The familiar feeling of annoyance creeps up. "...You know what I mean."

(Oddly, Germany thinks, it feels _good_ to be annoyed by Italy again - it means that things might just be getting back to normal...)

"Hey, Germany?" the Italian says suddenly, serious once more, "Do you remember me telling you about that town named Viganella?"

He raises an eyebrow. What in the _world_...? "The place where the sun doesn't shine in the winter?... I think so. Why?"

"Well... I always used to go there when I was sad because nobody ever thought to look for me and so I was left alone to be upset and I didn't have to pretend to be happy - but they've put a mirror on the mountain now. I'm not sure how it works but I've been told that now it isn't going to be dark or cold anymore and... I'm beginning to wonder if it's a sign."

Germany frowns. "A sign?"

"Si," Italy nods softly, "a sign. Because it's been exactly 200 years ago today that he was - since he - he..." Italy pauses and wipes his eyes. "W-well, you know now what happened. Is it a sign that I m-maybe should stop feeling so sad about him?"

(_Was the laughing Italian from moments ago really so bipolar? Or was that another act?_)

"...Italy," he carefully says, "you might not ever completely stop feeling sad. If you don't feel happy, than you don't have to pretend or try to force yourself to smile."

As Italy analyzes this, a curious expression settles on his face; it's an odd mixture of sadness and burden and awe - like maybe, for the first time in a long time, Italy has heard _exactly_ the right thing from his friend. "Y-you don't mind i-if I'm sad f-for j-just a bit l-longer?" he asks, his voice shaking.

Germany doesn't trust himself to speak, so he nods mutely. Italy's lip trembles slightly, but no more tears fall as he leans his head on Germany's shoulder.

And again - they sit in silence. This time, however, something has changed (maybe?), but Germany can't quite figure out what it is. It's as though some barrier has been broken - something that he hadn't known was even there - and now he isn't sure what to do or say.

He hears sopranos somewhere in the cathedral, and he can't help but feel irritated that he _still_ doesn't know what they're singing.

Italy's breath suddenly hitches, and Germany stiffens. "...What are you thinking right now?" he asks before he can stop himself.

Softly sitting up, Italy looks at him imploringly. "Ve, Germany... are you _sure_ you w-want to know?"

He nods before he can convince himself this is a bad idea.

Italy turns his focus and gazes at the stained glass with dead eyes. "You see the scenes from the Bible in these windows?" Germany nods, and Italy continues, "I was looking at that window that shows Christ dying on the cross and... and I just began wondering: Which hurts more? Hanging from your hands and dying for days? Or having your heart shattered and surviving it for centuries afterward?... I always think on this date - or on other sad days like this - that I would rather have died quickly." He forces a laugh. "Besides, the dead aren't alone - they've got other souls to keep them company. But... but I'm alone. Even though you're here, you have no idea what it feels like to_ know_ that they're gone forever... so I'm alone. And I suppose I always will be. Well, I _hope_ I will be - _nobody_ really deserves to go through this kind of suffering."

And in that moment, something _clicks_ in Germany's mind. He _understands_, because he hears this from his friend and he sees the sunlight dancing through the colored panels and he hears the faint choir in the background and he _finally_ realizes what they're singing.

Brahms.

Not music from the repertoire of an Italian or the catholic hymnal, but a German composer. Not one of Brahms's love songs or his famous _Wiegenlied_, but instead _Ein deutsches Requiem_ - A German Requiem.

Not intended to comfort the dead, but to console the survivors.

_Wohl denen, die in deinem Hause wohnen; die loben dich immerdar._

He understands, and that nearly breaks him.

"...But the boy who went away - he's always been there," Germany says carefully. "I don't think the Holy Roman Empire ever really left. And Italy, I promise you: if you're afraid of being alone, then I'll never leave. Not like he did."

Italy's eyes, already wide open, grow even larger. At first Germany thinks it's because he's said something wrong, but then the Italian asks quietly, "_H-how'd you know h-his name?_"

...How _does_ Germany know the name of the Holy Roman Empire?

He wonders exactly how many lies his friend has heard... but no matter the specific number, it's been too many. And so, he tells the truth. "I'm not sure... and to be perfectly honest, I don't know if it matters."

Italy looks ready to cry again at this revelation - he probably hadn't heard the name "_Holy Roman Empire_" in years, decades, or maybe even centuries, and it probably hurts horribly to hear Germany saying it today. "I'm n-not... I'm not s-sure that I b-believe you." He looks away even further, like he's trying to hide this weak thing that he's become. "I've a-always been a-alone in this, a-and th-that's n-never going to ch-change."

"...But Italy," Germany says in a whisper, "_you never were alone._"

Italy's tear-stained cheeks turn towards him, and those bright brown eyes of his are opened for once, and Germany sees that Italy is internally asking - no, _pleading_ - for him to somehow prove that he's speaking the truth. Germany feels déjà vu - he's seen Italy upset like this before, sometime long ago, but... but he... he isn't _sure_...

(_an outstretched arm a green field two shocked eyes Please join me and become a part of my empire! -_ )

But it doesn't matter, because he still knows what to do.

...

And softly, Germany takes Italy's hand.


End file.
